


Blood and Crushed Veneer

by jacquie_bebop



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blame music and my mood, Depressing, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9221432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquie_bebop/pseuds/jacquie_bebop
Summary: It always started this way.Just when she thinks that she was being silly the last time, maybe too sensitive, easily offended. Just when the sting has started to fade and she forgets why she was ever hurt, it happens again.It could be a single word, a short phrase, not even a complete sentence. One time, it was just a condescending sound, said in a scathing tone and made to mock her, to make her feel like she was nothing, less than nothing.And it would all come flooding back.





	

**Author's Note:**

> When you're trying to work on your other fic and write some smut, but "Skinny Love" by Birdy comes on your Pandora playlist and instead your fingers type out some random Jumin angst, you get this little one shot.
> 
> For some reason, the lyrics made me think of how things would be if Jumin never learned how to express emotions properly, instead slowly breaking MC apart. I don't even know. Sorry.

It always started this way.

 

Just when she thinks that she was being silly the last time, maybe too sensitive, easily offended. Just when the sting has started to fade and she forgets why she was ever hurt, it happens again.

It could be a single word, a short phrase, not even a complete sentence. One time, it was just a condescending sound, said in a scathing tone and made to mock her, to make her feel like she was nothing, less than nothing.

 

And it would all come flooding back.

 

Her throat will tighten, choking her, making her breath struggle to find its way out. Her eyes will sting, tears forming against her own volition, pooling until they fell. Her heart, though beating wildly in her chest, will ache like a sore bruise, reminding her of its flaw.

Loving him will always be her flaw.

 

She can’t decide what’s worse – when he acknowledges it, or when he doesn’t. Both make her feel stupid, like she’s some blithering spineless housewife, like she doesn’t have a life that isn’t revolving around the words that fall from his mouth. It makes her feel desperate, letting him affect her so easily, giving him permission to hurt her while she takes each blow like a physical hit.

“I’m not good at emotions,” he’d say, wringing his hands, staring into her eyes with fervent intensity. “I’m trying. I’m sorry, you know I love you.” He’d press his words into her throat, smooth a hand up her thigh, use her moans as a weapon against her. His apologies always ended between the sheets, spooning in the aftermath, his sleepy breathing the background noise to her silent sobs.

Sometimes he’d buy her gifts. Expensive, of course. Making strawberry pancakes for breakfast was also another trademark move, meant to remind her how charming and thoughtful he was. _“See?”_ she could imagine him saying with his actions, _“I’m a loving man, I care, I could never hurt you. It’s your imagination.”_  

She used to be so strong.

 

She was fierce and independent and a little bit wild, but in the way that made others drawn to her, wanting to bathe in her light. That’s how she had caught his eye – her light calling to his darkness, her deft and quick hands untangling his minds’ threads, smoothing them into one coherent piece. She often thinks back to the woman she was then, and wonders if she still exists somewhere, just out of reach, waiting for the right moment to show herself – to remind everyone she still exists.

She was always convinced she loved him more – more than she should, more than what was normal, more than he loved her. Every blissful moment spent with him would be slowly tainted by her mind, seeds of doubt snaking through her veins, infecting her heart, poisoning her brain. Maybe this was all her fault? Maybe she was defective, incapable of giving a man like him what he needs. If only she was shinier, smoother, less ragged around the edges. If only her brain worked faster than her smart mouth. If only she could be perfect, then maybe this wouldn’t happen. Maybe then he could love her right.

She reminds herself to breathe, to not let the tears show so she doesn’t make things worse. She moves towards their room without thinking, her body instinctually following a sad routine it knows all too well. She feels as if her heart has been ripped out and handed to him, just for him to squeeze it into a pulpy mess, laughing to himself, before going back to the practiced mask of a caring human being. He was so good at playing pretend, at being a real boy, with wooden actions and splintered words.

She locks herself away, sliding down the wall in the dark, letting her pain swirl around her, consuming her, sucking it’s fill from her soul. She is nothing, she is a husk of her former self, a fool who thought that she could change someone with the power of her heart.

In the dark, she wonders for the millionth time what is worse – feeling everything, or feeling nothing at all.


End file.
